


Only the Dead...

by xbedhead



Category: To End All Wars
Genre: Allied POW camp, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Torture, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was two days before Reardon spoke.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Dead...

**Author's Note:**

> From the movie _To End All Wars_ , one of my favorites. Unbeta'd and, to be honest, I'm not really sure where this came from.

~*~

It was two days before Reardon spoke.

Ernie thought he was imagining it, but when he lifted his head from the bundle of banana leaves, he saw that Reardon was staring back at him, eyes open and lucid, not dulled and blank like they had been since he’d been cut free.

“Sorry about your school, Ernie.”

It was only slightly more than a whisper, but the only sounds of the night were the bugs and the distant crunch of Japanese boots on the dry dirt.

Ernie pushed himself up on an elbow and shook his head. “It’s okay, Jim,” he said quietly, catching himself before using the slightly-less-than-affectionate nickname – somehow, it didn’t seem right considering the circumstances. “They’re letting me open it back up – they said we did good work.”

Reardon appeared to roll that answer around in his head a moment before looking down at the thatched pattern of his cot. 

When Ernie turned his head, he noticed several of the other men settling back down into their pillows after having peeked over to see what the conversation was about. “D’ya need to get up? Move about?” he asked, looking back at Reardon for an answer.

Ernie took the grunt for a ‘yes’ and shifted his feet off of his platform bed. Forgoing his sandals, he padded across the narrow strip that separated one side of the bunk house from the other and helped Reardon as he struggled to sit up. He draped one of Jim’s arms over his shoulder, trying to ignore the hiss of pain as he brought the two of them upright.

By the time they made it to the front steps, Ernie knew that at least half the men had been awoken by the noise and he was sure that he would hear about it the next morning as they lined up for their detail.

It was a long walk to the latrine, made even longer by Reardon’s short, stumbling steps and the sudden appearance of two night watchmen. Ernest held onto Reardon’s shoulder as he stood by the festering ditch, worried that he might fall in after his first lurch forward. That taken care of, they plodded back to the bunkhouse with Ernest steering them clear of the patch of dirt Jim had been staked to for days.

They passed the water pump and although he’d refused anything to drink so far, Ernest hoped that maybe he was coherent enough now to take a few sips.

“Here – let’s wash those, okay?”

Ernie reached for Reardon’s hands with one of his own and pumped the lever with the other, letting the water rush out and over his comrade’s raw and torn flesh. The blood wouldn’t quite rinse away, but it was enough to work through the dirt that had impacted itself into the cuts. 

Reardon watched, silent and so transfixed by the act that Ernest thought he might’ve been going into shock. But then he remembered the ungodly heat of the past week and how the shouts and taunts had disappeared after the first night in the ropes.

“Yanker...ya have to get up and work tomorrow, okay? You _have_ to – they’re watchin’, all right? They’ll send ya to the sick house.” 

Ernest forced himself to be quiet, calm, trying to keep the worry out of his voice, though he wasn’t sure that Reardon would pick up on it at the moment. There was something off about the way his eyes wouldn’t settle on any one thing for very long.

“Try this, okay?” he asked, cupping his hands under the flow and catching some of the water in his palms.

Reardon drank without further prompting, so much so that Ernest worried it might make him sick, but he stopped soon, wiping at his mouth with trembling hands. They stood by the pump a few more moments, each of them sloshing water onto Reardon’s dirt-caked chest and back.

When they were finished, Reardon nodded toward the bunk house and Ernest took up his position under his shoulder once more. They settled him back into bed, this time with less commotion, and Ernest made sure that his head found the pile of banana leaves and straw.

“Remember – about tomorrow,” Ernest whispered as he gave Reardon’s shoulder a squeeze.

Reardon nodded and closed his eyes, turning onto his side as Ernest stepped away.

“Ernie?”

Ernest turned, not having made it back to his own bunk yet.

“I’m sorry about your school.”

Ernest swallowed, forgoing an answer that he knew would be wasted at the moment. He could only hope that things would improve with the light of day.

And they did. Somewhat. He managed to wrangle Reardon off of his cot the next morning and into formation. He whispered his number to him during count off, knowing that ‘nijuushi’ was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. He kept an eye on him during the day, making sure he didn’t fall behind and get the lash. 

It was hard at first, but Ernest saw him settle back into a routine and eventually the worry began to ebb. He was relieved for the transition, but he also missed the jackassedness and cynical remarks, always on time, always delivered with just the right amount of playfulness. 

But that Yanker – the one he’d considered a friend – was gone. 

In his place was a quiet man that shuffled around the camp, unassuming, head bowed, avoiding contact with anyone considered to be in the Major’s faction. His hand found a near-constant purchase at his chest, fingers glued to the neck of the dry-rotted shirt he’d traded two capsules of penicillin for. He carried water instead of lumber because his strength, just like his sarcasm, had left him. At night, instead of joining in the conversation with his off-color comments on women and defense of American music, he turned away and watched the bugs crawl along his cot.

But the changes weren’t all for the worst. He wandered his way into the university classroom and eagerly took up one of the slates that he’d bartered for so many months earlier. Verbal contributions to the lectures never came, but Ernest found himself looking forward to see what he’d written in his weekly assignments. His understanding of the material, of the concepts of justice seemed somewhat abstract at times, but Ernest thought that he knew why. Reardon wasn’t speaking from the text anymore – he was speaking from his own experiences. He now knew intimately the types of pain and suffering that Plato had referred to so often.

So that was why, when Ito shouted, shovel in hand, for the culprit to turn himself in, Ernest didn’t have to turn around. He already knew who was stepping forward.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a Plato quote that says "Only the dead have seen the end of the war." Thought it was somewhat fitting and went well with the title of the movie.


End file.
